Online journal capturing the moment and the memory of moments. A meadow meditation.
L'aura del campo
'é a lua, é a lua, na quintana dos mortos'
♣ Federico García Lorca ♣
L'aura del campo. A breeze in the meadow. So it began the last day of Spring, 2005; on the 16th day of the month of Light of the year 162. This is a supplement to my daily journal written to a friend, my muse; notes I do not share. Here I will share what the breeze has whispered to me.
PLEASE LEAVE COMMENTS! I LV COMMENTS!
passed away November 12, 2005
Please visit her port to read her poems and her writings.
These pictures rotate.
~ until everything was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow! And I let the fish go.
~ Elizabeth Bishop,
Ice clings to winter
deep in furrows
where April shadows water-seeps
waiting for June's melt.
Should spring ne'er come —
like high-peak snowbanks
persisting year to year,
like traces of life that lie in wait
in dark bleak reaches of the Void,
will I hold on?
Whence then your sun
and when —
come to soften stiffened hearts,
these scars of frost and drought
the sleeping landscape of our thoughts?
When you waken them,
© Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.40] (13.april.2021)
|We are Yellow
Yellowbells rang to buttercups,
and the Salish
starving for fresh food in this mud season of death,
and tired of fish.
They rang silently on slopes of the mountains,
flats along the river,
wherever there was moisture or a crevice.
Yellow, they rang in clear tones,
we are yellow,
the sign of the last snows
as melt fills the river.
We are Yellow,
a harbinger of plenty to come.
© Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.42] (24.april.2021)
Wilflowers taboo words: flower, field, scent, bunch, pretty or any derivatives of these words
We saw Chauvin murder Floyd,
saw it with our own two eyes.
What are we now supposed to deny?
We saw speeches spewing hate,
saw hatred ignite quiescent flames,
saw tiki-torches marching.
We watched the silent films depict
goose-stepping callow beardless youth
never asking how nor why.
We read how Hebrews called upon Heavens
to slaughter their appointed enemies;
heartless, we cheered them on.
We don't look in mirrors tarnished by time,
fearful of what monster therein resides,
wearing our unmasked face.
© Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.40]
Inspired by ridinghhood--p. boutilier
|So much remains taboo in the post-British-colonial world. The Puritans and Victorians ... left a legacy of joyless rules.
Do I write a poem about sex? Do I write one without limpid rhymes? Is ghastly good enough?
We mixed black and brown and white,
added red and yellow,
painted with our multi-colored palette
to piss over your inhumanity,
your insistence that you were better.
We mangled Shakespeare's plays,
strangled Lord What's-his-face's poems,
as we dared to question
your ignoble history of death,
replaced it with our vibrant colors.
You were never better than we were:
your polluted water made us ill,
your piss perfume hid your fetid odor,
your glee angered us as you killed
anyone who stood in your way.
You stole our language
left us with this bastard tongue
of commerce, pride and treachery.
We want our love back,
our lullabys of bounteous lands and seas.
We beg you go back to where you belong.
You stole our culture,
peace and harmony
and left us fish and chips.
24 lines ... so far.